


Not Exactly The Bradys

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Multi, Pre-Series, Slash, Wincest - Freeform, daddycest, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-27
Updated: 2009-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Winchester house, when things go bump in the night, it's best to have a gun under your pillow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, _Not Exactly The Bradys_ was published as two versions: one gen, one slash. The gen version was essentially identical to chapter one; the slash version simply offered an expanded POV of the same events. So instead of re-posting two versions, I'm staying with the slash. If you prefer gen, stop reading after chapter one :-)

#### 12.39 am

When Sam woke it was still dark outside. Dark was a relative term, of course: the orange glow of the streetlights spilled through the window, giving Sam a clear view of Dean's rumpled but empty bed. Sam reached beneath his pillow for the .45 automatic he kept there. He'd slept with the gun since he was nine years old.

The house seemed quiet, but _something_ must have woken him. Sam could hear someone moving around downstairs. It was probably Dean, or their dad. Sam kept still for a few moments, listening intently, but he couldn't tell who it was. Or, perhaps, _what_ it was. With that thought, a familiar fear began to creep over Sam and he shivered. He checked the safety on his gun and climbed out of bed. He walked barefooted to the door, where he waited, listening again. He heard nothing.

Sam remembered his father's lectures on safety, on always being prepared to run if something was too big or too strong to fight so he put on the nearest pair of shoes. They happened to be the combat boots he wore when he couldn't get out of training with his dad. He must have looked ridiculous: a gangly teenager dressed in heavy combat boots and thin cotton pyjamas with buttons missing, creeping out of his room with a gun in his hand. Sam walked as quietly as he could toward the stairs so he could look down into the hall below.

There was a light on down there: not the hall light, which would have been much brighter, but light coming from the living room, Sam thought, which should mean it was Dean down there. The jerk probably snuck out of bed to watch porn.

Sam was about to call down the stairs when Dean came into view and the sight of him froze the smart remark in Sam's throat. Dean was stripped to the waist and barefoot, wearing only his pyjama pants. The pants were spattered with blood. So was his skin: chest, arms, there were even some red splashes on his face. Dean was carrying what looked like a bundle of blood-soaked towels. Sam caught only a brief glimpse of his brother as he crossed quickly from the living room to the kitchen. He didn't have time to see everything but he didn't think the blood was Dean's.

Sam felt cold with fear, his mouth dry, his heart beating in his throat instead of his chest, but it wasn't himself he was afraid for any more. He wondered if all that blood was his father's. He wondered if there was something wrapped in those bloody towels. He wondered if he really wanted to know.

Sam ran down the stairs to the kitchen. He found Dean frantically opening cupboards. The big first aid box stood open on the kitchen table. The bloody towels were in the sink.

"Dean!" Sam hissed from the doorway.

Dean whirled and when he saw Sam there was fear in his face. "What are you doing here, Sammy?" he demanded. His voice was a hoarse whisper; he was afraid of being overheard.

"I woke up..." Sam started to explain, but Dean gestured, cutting him off.

"Ssh! Go back to bed, Sammy. You don't want to see this." He turned away and opened the next cupboard. He moved some stuff around. He seemed to be panicking a little, but Sam was relieved. He could see for sure that Dean wasn't hurt.

"What are you looking for, dude?" Sam asked.

"Alcohol."

"On the dresser."

Dean threw an exasperated look over his shoulder. "No, dumbass, not scotch. Alcohol. For cleaning stuff."

"Oh. There's some iodine in the bathroom. Will that do?"

The relief in Dean's face was almost comical, or it would have been under other circumstances. "Get it for me, Sammy."

Sam didn't argue. He ran up to the bathroom as quickly as he could manage without making noise. Even in the heavy boots, he could move quietly: Dad's training. He found the bottle of iodine and ran back to Dean with it.

Dean was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He took the bottle from Sam and added it to the box he carried.

"I can help," Sam said.

"No, you can't! Dad will be so mad if he knows you're up. Go back to bed, Sammy. Please!"

Sam wouldn't be deterred so easily. "Is Dad okay?" he pressed. "What's goin' on?"

"Sam, just go. I'll tell you tomorrow."

Sam turned and started back up the stairs. He glanced back over his shoulder. Dean was still watching him.

"Go!" Dean whispered again.

Sam returned to their bedroom, but he didn't get back into bed. Dean hadn't answered his question.

Sam dressed quickly: underwear, pants, t-shirt. He dragged the sports bag out from under Dean's bed and got out one of his combat knives with a black sheath and a thigh-strap. He put it on, tight to his leg where he could reach it easily. He pushed his .45 through his belt. After a moment's thought, Sam swapped his boots for sneakers - easier to be quiet - and pulled on a black sweater over his t-shirt. Then, quiet as a mouse, he made his way down the stairs again.

The door to the living room stood ajar and from where Sam stood at the bottom of the staircase it looked as if every light in the room was on. There was plenty of light at any rate, giving Sam a clear view of the shocking scene.

The furniture had all been moved, hastily shoved back against the walls to clear a space in the middle of the room. Sam saw three men there: Dean and John, and another man Sam didn't recognise. It was the third man he noticed first because his face was covered with blood, all but his eyes. It was like a death mask. Sam gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself making any more noise. Had anyone heard him?

Dean was standing in front of John, trying to unbutton his father's heavy shirt. Sam saw blood on his father's shirt. Something terrible was happening. Unconsciously, Sam reached for the hilt of the knife he wore. He didn't draw it, but the hilt was comfortingly solid in his palm.

"John," the strange man said, and his voice was gravely and hoarse, the kind of voice a man gets from a 60-a-day cigarette habit. That one word was a plea.

John pushed Dean's hands away from him. "No. Carla first," John said, in that tone which meant it was an order and he expected instant obedience.

Dean shook his head and Sam watched in amazement. He'd never seen Dean defy their father, even for a moment.

John pushed his son away. "While you make up your mind, she's choking on her own blood! Help Sanchez. Now!"

Dean moved, and abruptly Sam realised there was a fourth person in the room. A body lay on the floor. His view had been blocked by Dean's body; when he moved Sam saw an arm, a shoulder and long, blonde hair. Then John moved, too, and Sam saw it all. He knew it was a woman because he'd heard his father say _she,_ but he wouldn't have been able to tell by looking. Her body was stocky, the shoulders wide for a woman. Even her clothing was masculine: army-style boots and pants, a utility vest over a t-shirt. Everything she wore was black. Sam was grateful for that because it meant he couldn't see how much blood there was on that clothing. But the thick, coppery smell was almost choking him. There was a lot of blood.

John's movement had shown Sam something else as well. There were a number of _things_ sticking out of John's chest and upper arms. They looked like thick, black thorns, but bigger and longer than any thorns Sam had ever seen. What protruded from his father's flesh was longer than Sam's hand. How much was inside John's body? God, that had to hurt! How was the man even functioning?

It explained Dean's panic in the kitchen. It explained all the blood. It even explained why Dean wanted Sam out of the way; just watching from the hallway, Sam felt nauseous.

The woman, Carla, had thorns in her body, too. There was one coming out of the side of her neck.

Dean had moved to kneel near her legs. He reached down as if to touch her and Sam saw that the man John called Sanchez was holding a belt as a makeshift tourniquet around her thigh. Dean took over from him without being told again. Sam could see his brother's face clearly now and he looked as scared as Sam felt.

John had a knife in his hand, a sharp kitchen knife. Sam watched him wipe the blade down with iodine. John looked up at the other man. "I wish you'd let us go to the ER."

"And tell them what?" Sanchez growled.

"That she's dying!"

Sanchez made an odd gesture with his hand. "Better here than there."

Better for whom? Sam wondered. He inched closer to the door, not quite believing what he was seeing. John laid the iodine-streaked knife against Carla's neck, point first, as if he was going to stab her. With his other hand he grasped the black thorn in her neck. He hesitated. Sam never saw his dad hesitate.

Sanchez snapped, "Do it, John."

Sam didn't see exactly what happened. John did something and the thorn came free. John jerked back. Blood fountained into the air, hitting John in the face. John wiped his eyes with his sleeve and uttered a single profanity. He covered the bleeding wound with his hand. "Bandage!" he snapped.

It was too late. Sam had watched enough late-night TV to know what that spurt of blood meant. John cut her carotid artery when he pulled out the thorn.

They tried anyway. John covered the wound with a thick white dressing and pressed down on it, hard. The white turned to scarlet in seconds. Sam watched in horror, torn between wanting to help (but what could he do except call 911?) and not wanting to risk his father's anger.

It was then that Dean looked up, his face already pale with shock. If it were possible, he lost even more colour when he saw Sam watching. Dean turned frightened eyes to his father. "Dad...?"

John moved back, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry, Sanchez."

Silence fell. Dean looked toward Sam again, telling him wordlessly to get the hell out.

Sam felt frozen in place. There was a dead woman on the floor of the living room. Her blood was soaking into the carpet where, six hours earlier, Sam had lain, finishing his schoolwork before supper. His mind couldn't make sense of it.

Sanchez broke the silence. "We need to move. Are you with me, John?"

Dean looked at his father, his eyes wide and scared.

After a moment, John answered, his voice dull and even. "She should be buried in hallowed ground."

"She's no more a believer than I am," Sanchez objected.

"That's not why I said it."

For the first time, Sam heard a real emotion in Sanchez's voice: distain. "Come on, John, you don't believe that old saw, do ya?"

The two men looked at each other across the woman's body. Sam felt something important was being said; not spoken but certainly communicated.

Finally John dug into his pocket and held something out to Sanchez. "All right, you can use the Chevy. I suggest the river. About five miles out of town the currents are strong enough to..."

Sanchez took the keys from John's hand. "You're not coming?"

John said, in a voice that brooked no argument, "I'm staying with my sons." He turned to Dean. "Dean, go and find a blanket."

Dean nodded uncertainly and stood. He swayed a little on his feet, as if exhausted.

John looked up. "Dean."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're doing great, son." Sam saw only his father's back, but he knew John was smiling when he said that. Not a happy smile, but what Dean needed nonetheless.

He saw Dean pull himself together and stride toward the door, and Sam. Dean grabbed the front of Sam's sweater, getting blood all over him, and shoved Sam against the wall. "What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, quiet but furious. "I told you to go back to bed!"

"I thought you needed help!"

Dean looked as if he wanted to shove Sam right through the wall. "Sam, I oughta..." he began. He pushed against Sam's chest with his fists. "When are you gonna learn to follow orders!"

Abruptly he released Sam and left him there, striding across the hall. Sam couldn't follow: John would see him if he tried. Dean returned with a blanket in his arms. He passed Sam, stopped and turned around. He hissed at Sam, "We don't need help. Go back upstairs, now!" Dean was a terrifying sight, anger sparking in his eyes, blood drying on his arms and face.

Sam nodded, acknowledging the order even as he knew he wasn't going to do what Dean wanted. Dean said _go back upstairs_ not _go back to bed._ Sam scurried back up the stairs but he stayed at the top, where he could watch the hallway unseen by those below. He heard movement and muffled voices. He fought down the images of what they were doing in the living room.

Finally, Dean came out, followed by Sanchez carrying the woman's body wrapped in the blanket. Dean opened the front door for him, which seemed a crazy way to go but no one was asking Sam, then closed it behind him.

When Dean walked back to the living room, Sam crept down the stairs again.

Now there were only two of them in the room, Sam could see the red stain in the carpet more clearly. They were never going to get that out.

Dean said, "Now will you let me get that crap out of you?" Sam had to smile at how much Dean sounded like their dad. He had a very determined look on his face as he reached for the first aid box.

John handed Dean the bloody knife. Dean wiped it automatically.

"Remind me," John said, "to add a scalpel to our medkit."

Dean held the knife, but he was looking a lot less certain. "Dad, I can't."

John reached out, touching Dean's hand briefly. "Son, she was already dead. We had to try but it was always too late."

"I know," Dean answered quietly."

"The spines are barbed, son. You have to cut in to get it loose. If you don't, it will break off inside me. You understand what that means?"

Dean lifted the knife. "If I do it wrong the poison could kill you. Dad, the ER is fifteen minutes away."

"Yeah, by car and Sanchez took it. You can do this, Dean."

"I can't believe you let him take the car, man." Dean drew a long, shaky breath. "You want something to bite on?"

"I don't need it."

At first, Sam thought that was John's bravado talking. Feeling sick, he watched his brother and his father kneeling in a pool of blood while Dean cut into his father's flesh. When Dean started to cut, John looked away but he gave no other sign of pain. It was as if he didn't even feel the knife. Dean had said something about poison. Sam knew a little about natural poisons and venoms, from biology class. There were some things that could paralyse a person, numb the nerves. Could that be what this was?

What the hell had his dad been hunting?

Dean hesitated earlier, but once he started work he showed no sign of nerves. He worked methodically, cutting out each thorn - or spine as John had called them - and covering each wound with white gauze and tape before moving on to the next. He was slowly peeling the shirt away from their dad's shoulders as he removed the spines pinning the material to his flesh. Sam watched it all with a kind of horrified fascination. How could Dean stay so calm?

"Dad?"

John spoke through gritted teeth - maybe he did feel some pain after all. "You're doing good."

But Dean hadn't needed that reassurance. "What happens when the cops find Carla's body?" he asked.

John was silent for a moment. "If we're lucky," he answered, his tone very careful, "they won't."

"If they do?" Dean persisted.

"I don't know, son, but unless they find her tonight, there won't be any evidence linking her to us. Carla Sanchez lived totally off the grid. No drivers licence, no social security, not even a passport. Officially she's been a missing person since she was your age. Good enough?"

"No, sir."

"I didn't think so." There was a note of pride in John's voice that Sammy didn't fully understand.

Dean pulled the shirt over to John's right arm. He seemed unaware of Sam watching, this time. There was just one spine left. With John's bare skin exposed, Sam could see the drying blood mottling his back, and fresh blood staining the gauze Dean so-carefully taped over each wound. John had lost a lot of blood.

Dean slowly extracted the final spine and John took a deep breath.

"Dad, what went wrong out there tonight?"

John looked sharply at his son. "We...miscalculated," he answered slowly. "Carla paid the price."

Dean nodded as if that explained it. Maybe it did for Dean, but Sam was still in the dark. He knew his dad never went into a hunt unprepared. The idea that something could have blindsided him as badly as this was terrifying.

John started to get up. Sam got out of sight quickly, heading back up the stairs.

John looked down at the carpet. "What a mess," he said, his voice very quiet. Sam, listening from the top of the stairs, didn't think he was talking about the damaged carpet. He heard John say, "Son, you did good tonight, but there's a lot more work to do. Are you up for it?"

Dean answered, "Think I'd leave you to clean up alone? Especially with you stuck full of holes?"

John clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Good boy. Now, Sanchez is going to be a couple of hours, so that's how long we've got to get everything back in place. Dean, I want you to..."

Sam heard no more. He returned to the bedroom, undressed and lay down. He didn't expect to be able to sleep but somehow, after a lot of tossing and turning, he did.

***

#### 10.17 am

In the morning, Sam was still full of questions. He knew there would be evidence downstairs: it would give him a chance to demand answers without revealing how much he already knew.

On his way downstairs he smelled eggs cooking. He grimaced. Sam had no appetite. How could anyone eat after what happened?

He glanced through the living room door. The carpet was gone, but a large rug covered the floor in its place. All of the furniture was where it was supposed to be. There was no sign of the previous night's carnage. Nothing at all.

"Sammy!" Dean called from the kitchen.

Sam headed over there. The scene in the kitchen was remarkable only in its utter normality. John sat at the table, munching his way through scrambled eggs and toast, with the morning newspaper open in front of him. Dean was lounging at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee. Only a slight tightness around his eyes betrayed what he'd witnessed.

Dean smiled as Sam hesitated in the doorway. "Morning, Sammy. You want scrambled egg or Wheaties?"

Sam wanted neither. What he _wanted_ was answers, but he knew suddenly that he was never going to get them. There would be some plausible story to explain the rug in the living room, and the rest would simply be denied. It never happened.

Sam glared at Dean, making sure their dad couldn't see it. "Wheaties," he said.


	2. Dean

#### 12.12 am

Dean woke grabbing for the knife that was always with him when he slept. A strong hand covered his mouth and another closed over his wrist, preventing him from getting to the knife. The single terrified thought that went through his mind was _Sammy!_ Then he recognised the face of his father above him and relaxed. John released his son's wrist and laid a finger over his lips, signalling for silence. Dean nodded to show he understood and the hand over his mouth was withdrawn.

"Come with me," John whispered. He left the boys' bedroom quickly.

When his dad gave an order, he meant _now_ so Dean didn't stop to dress. He followed his dad, closing the bedroom door carefully. Behind him, Sammy was sound asleep.

John moved fast, forcing Dean to hurry after him. Not until they reached the hall downstairs did Dean catch up enough to get a good look at his dad. The sight stopped him in his tracks. John's shirt was spattered with blood, and a number of thick, black spines were sticking out of his body.

Dean, not slow, figured that the hunt had gone badly wrong. "Dad!" he began, about to point out that he needed to get those things out of him quickly.

John gestured for quiet. "No, Dean. Come with me, do as you're told and don't ask questions."

Dean straightened. "Yes, sir."

And only when Dean acknowledged his order did John open the door and let him see what waited in the living room.

Dean thought seeing blood all over his father was the worst he would see this night; he'd been wrong. Sanchez stood in the middle of the room, cradling Carla's body in his arms. There was blood all over both of them, more, much more than stained John's shirt. The sight of Sanchez with blood dripping thickly over his eyes was so horrible it stopped Dean in his tracks.

Carla was a mess, blood streaking her lovely blonde hair. Dean felt the first stab of grief; he'd met these two only briefly today (yesterday? It was past midnight) while Sam was in school but he liked Carla. She treated him like an adult, like a hunter. Not like a kid hanging on to Dad's coat-tails. He sat with them while they planned tonight's hunt and Carla took Dean's suggestions seriously. They'd made it sound like a straightforward job; what could have gone so badly wrong?

This wasn't the first time Dean had seen a hunt go bad. He remembered the black dog which, just a few months earlier, almost killed both Dean and his father. A dog is man's best friend...except when it's a vicious, demonic hellhound. They made it out with nothing worse than cuts and bruises, but it was a close one. Yeah, sometimes things went bad. Watching Carla bleed was the worst Dean had ever seen. He thought, _That could be Dad_, and hated himself for being glad it was Carla instead.

"Dean!" His father's voice snapped Dean out of his brief hesitation. "We need to clear a space."

They moved the furniture, shoving everything against the walls to leave a large space in the middle of the room. Dean helped John lift the couch to move it and couldn't help noticing how the exertion brought fresh blood from his wounds. It scared him, because Dad _had_ to be hurting, and badly, and because Dean knew what they'd been hunting. They got the couch up against the wall and John turned to lift a chair. He cried out in pain.

Instantly, Dean was as his father's side. "Dad, let me finish this. You're hurt."

"Pain..." John forced the word through gritted teeth, "...is good."

Dean could see he was in a lot of pain, and didn't understand how that could be good. But John had told him not to ask questions, so Dean got on with the job. He lifted the chair and moved it, then went back for the table which he turned onto its side, leaving a large space in the middle of the room.

Behind him, Sanchez laid Carla down on the floor. He stripped off his leather jacket and folded it, placing it under her head as a pillow. Dean had time, then, to notice details like the blue towels wrapped around her thigh, soaking up blood. Too much blood. He watched Sanchez remove Carla's belt and the bloody towels, and then wrap the belt around her thigh as a tourniquet. Sanchez worked quickly, as if this was something he'd done many times.

John shoved the bloody towels into Dean's hands, and there was so much blood it splashed his skin and started to soak into his pyjama pants.

"Get rid of these," John ordered. "We need the medkit, the sharpest knife you can find in the kitchen and the alcohol. Don't wake your brother."

Dean tried to ignore the wetness spreading around his middle as he hurried into the kitchen. John didn't specify how he was to "get rid" of the towels so Dean dumped them in the sink and filled it with cold water to soak out the blood. He got the medkit - a large box filled with everything you'd expect to find in a home first-aid box, and a good deal more. Dean checked the contents quickly, as he'd been trained to do, though he knew the full inventory would be there. He wasn't sure why his father wanted a knife but the kitchen knife with the five-inch blade was super-sharp: Dean had cut himself on it more than once. He added the knife to the box and started searching for the alcohol. He expected it to be in the cupboard above the sink with the rest of the cleaning materials, but it wasn't there. It would be in one of the high cupboards: a carry-over from when Sammy was a suicidally-curious toddler and would drink from any container he could get open. Dean tried the next cupboard.

"Dean!"

At first, Dean thought the whisper was his dad and when he turned around he was braced for criticism for being so slow. But it wasn't John in the doorway. It was Sam. A yawny Sammy still in his jammies. _Don't wake your brother,_ John had ordered.

"What are you doing here, Sammy?" Dean demanded. He looked past his brother, terrified he was going to see their dad. Dean didn't need the order to know that Sam shouldn't see what was happening in their living room. It would give him nightmares for weeks.

"I woke up..." Sam yawned.

Dean cut him off. "Ssh! Go back to bed, Sammy. You don't want to see this." He opened the next cupboard. No alcohol. He shifted a few bottles around to make sure. Where the hell was it? Dad wouldn't have asked for alcohol if they didn't have any...would he?

"What are you looking for, dude?" Sammy asked him.

"Alcohol."

"On the dresser," Sammy said, as if Dean should have known.

Dean threw a withering glance at Sammy. "No dumbass, not scotch." At eighteen, Dean enjoyed a beer or three, but he hadn't really developed a taste for spirits. His dad said he would, soon enough, and on nights like this he understood the appeal of a strong drink to numb the feelings, but that wasn't what he needed right then. "Alcohol. For cleaning stuff."

Sam had the grace to look apologetic. "Oh. There's some iodine in the bathroom. Will that do?"

"Get it for me, Sammy," Dean ordered with relief. It was possible that iodine was what dad meant, and if it wasn't, it would be a good substitute. And Carla was bleeding to death while he wasted time searching.

Dean lifted the medkit and waited at the bottom of the stairs for Sammy. He took the bottle from Sam and added it to the box he carried.

"I can help," Sam insisted eagerly.

The thought of Sam seeing their dad hurt as bad as he was made Dean cold with fear. "No, you can't! Dad will be so mad if he knows you're up. Go back to bed, Sammy. Please!"

Sam couldn't be deterred so easily. "Is Dad okay?" he pressed. "What's goin' on?"

"Sam, just go," Dean begged him. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

Sam turned and started back up the stairs. Dean stayed where he was, watching him, because he knew his little brother well, and Sam hated taking orders from anyone. Just to prove Dean right, Sammy glanced back over his shoulder.

"Go!" Dean whispered again.

Sammy left. Dean waited until he heard the bedroom door click shut, then he hurried to rejoin the others.

***

It was easiest not to think about it.

Dean set the box down where John told him to. He opened the iodine and wiped down the knife blade without waiting to be asked. He laid out everything they might need. Antiseptic wipes, absorbent swabs for cleaning up the blood, bandages, tape and sterile gauze dressings pre-cut into squares. Everything neatly laid out in the order he thought he'd need each item.

John's silent nod of approval was worth more than anything to Dean.

Dean looked at his father's wounds. There were at least fifteen spines sticking out of him, mostly in his chest and upper arms. One was worryingly close to his heart. Dean knew that the spines were hollow and filled with poison. One or two spines would not be enough to kill a man. Fifteen just might be. Dean didn't know for sure, but he wasn't going to risk it. He moved toward John, reaching for the buttons of his shirt."We've got to get those things out of you, Dad."

John allowed Dean to undo the first two buttons, but then pushed his hands away. "No," he insisted. "Carla first."

It was an order, but Dean wasn't listening. He cared about Carla but between her life and his father's there was no fucking contest. John came first. Always. He shook his head, no, reaching for the third button. Every second those spines were in John's flesh more of the poison could be seeping into him. He might die.

John snapped, "While you make up your mind, she's choking on her own blood!"

Dean thought that was fucking unfair because he wasn't being indecisive. He'd just made a decision Dad disagreed with. "Help Sanchez. Now!" That was a clear order. The anger in his father's voice got Dean moving. Sanchez showed him what to do: hold the tourniquet tight. Dean knew it was a job intended to keep him out of the way and occupied.

John took up the knife and tested the edge against his thumb. "Good," he muttered.

Carla's skin was pale, almost grey from blood loss. Holding the tourniquet, Dean rested his hand on her leg and found her cool to his touch. He was no doctor but he recognised shock. She needed a hospital.

John laid the knife point against Carla's neck, near one of the spines stuck into her, and for a panicked moment Dean honestly thought he was going to cut her throat. He watched, his heart pounding.

Sanchez's gravely voice cut into the silence. "John, do it."

Dean watched, because he couldn't help it, as his father pushed the knife into Carla's neck. John's fingers slid down the thick spine to the point where it entered her neck. Blood welled from the cut John had made. Dean saw John twist the spine a little, then he pulled out both knife and spine. Blood spurted from the wound, a powerful gush that made Dean jerk away even though he wasn't in its path.

The gush of blood hit John full in his face. "Fuck!" John wiped his eyes hastily and grabbed for the gauze Dean had laid out. Dean stayed where he was, frozen, watching Carla's blood spread out over the carpet beneath her. Her heart was still pumping, each beat driving more blood out through the wound. Dean was still gripping the tourniquet, trying to keep the blood in her body even as he watched it spill. John did his best to fix it, packing gauze against the wound and applying pressure. The white gauze turned red almost at once. And still John kept trying. Long after the pulsing blood slowed to a trickle, long after the last breath left her lungs, John was holding the wound closed, trying to stop a flow of blood that was slowing all on its own because there was no more blood for her heart to pump out onto the floor.

Dean knew she was dead long before his father accepted it. His fingers were cramping on the belt he held. Dean realised the futility of what he was doing and let the belt go, stretching his fingers and looked up into his dad's face. John's eyes were wild, desperate.

And then, behind John, Dean saw Sammy, lurking in the darkness on the other side of the doorway. Dean nearly died. He couldn't have said what scared him more: Sammy seeing this horror (Dean had a vivid memory of Sammy at six years old barfing at the sight of Dean's blood); or what Dad might do if he caught Sammy watching them. Dad was beginning to let Sammy in on the hunting, but Dean knew he wouldn't want Sammy knowing about this. Shit, neither did Dean!

John began to turn away from Carla and Dean knew he'd see Sammy. "Dad?" Dean said quickly.

John's shoulders slumped and he looked the other way, to Sanchez.

Even before John spoke, Dean saw the raw grief in his father's eyes. Dean forgot about Carla. He even forgot about Sammy. He forgot everything except John Winchester, because it wasn't Carla's death Dean saw in his father's eyes, even though John said all the right things to Sanchez. No, it was someone else, another woman John failed to save, fourteen years earlier.

More than anything else in the world, Dean wanted to reach out and take that pain from his father's eyes, but he knew it was too late. It had been too late long before Dean was old enough to understand.

***

"Dean, go and find a blanket."

Dean nodded, acknowledging the order, and tried to stand. Maybe it was tiredness, or the smell of blood surrounding him, but as he straightened a wave of dizziness assaulted him and Dean swayed on his feet.

"Dean," John said quietly.

"Yes, sir?"

"You're doing great, son." John met Dean's eyes wearily, and managed a smile.

Dean appreciated the effort. He got himself focussed on what was important, and strode toward the door.

Sammy was still there. The little idiot even got dressed. God, Dad was gonna kill him! Dean grabbed Sam by the front of his sweater and shoved him up against the wall, praying Dad wouldn't hear them.

He whispered furiously, "What the fuck are you doing? I told you to go back to bed!"

"I thought you needed help!" Sammy protested.

Dean still holding Sammy against the wall, drew back enough to take a good look at his little brother. He saw the gun in his belt, the knife at his side. Jesus, they were lucky the kid hadn't barged in.

Terror gripped Dean's heart. How much had Sam seen? How much did he know? This wasn't about a hunt gone bad any longer. It was about a dead woman on the living room floor. It was about his father and Sanchez calmly planning to dump her body.

A world of ghosts and demons Dean could live with. He'd been living in that world since he was four. But this...this crossed into a different world. This was the world of cops and courts, the world where what Dean just witnessed was called _reckless endangerment_ at best and _murder_ at worst. Shit, John could go to prison for this.

Dean would never tell anything he'd seen. But Sam was a lot younger and...well, he could be disconcertingly honest at times. Dean didn't really believe Sammy would betray them, but it was that chance, however remote it was, that made him push his fists into his brother's chest, hard enough to hurt.

"Sam, I oughta..." _fucking chain you to your bed at nights!_ "When are you gonna learn to follow orders!"

He didn't have time for this. Dad would be out here any second, wanting to know where the hell Dean was with his blanket. Dean let go of Sam and strode across the hall. There were spare blankets in the cupboard under the stairs. Dean picked one at random and walked back with the heavy cloth in his arms.

Sammy hadn't moved. He was watching Dean with real fear in his eyes. Good. If he was scared maybe he'd fucking listen this time!

Dean hissed at Sam, "We _don't_ need help. Go back upstairs, now!" _And stay there, this time, Sammy or I swear to god I'll..._ He couldn't come up with anything good enough to finish the thought. Dean walked on past him without looking back. He didn't dare. He just had to trust that Sammy would do as he was told this time. Dean thought he would; Sammy had seen enough for one night.

***

Dean couldn't quite believe Dad expected him to do this. He knew his hand was shaking as he lifted the knife and wiped the blade clean of Carla's blood. Then his father's hand covered his, just a brief, reassuring touch.

"Son, she was already dead," John said quietly. "We had to try, but it was always too late."

Dean felt his mouth quirk in a quick smile, because he knew his father didn't really believe what he was saying. Not that he would ever let John suspect he knew.

"The spines are barbed, son. You have to cut in to get it loose. If you don't, it will break off inside me." John's look was steady. "You understand what that means?"

_Geez, Dad, no pressure!_ Dean nodded. "If I do it wrong the poison could kill you. Dad," he begged, "the ER is fifteen minutes away."

"Yeah, by car. Sanchez took it," John reminded him. "You can do this, Dean."

His father's confidence in him made Dean lift the knife again. "I can't believe you let him take the car, man." If Sanchez screwed up, the cops could trace the Impala right back to John Winchester. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to do. The air tasted of blood. He swallowed, feeling a little sick. "You want something to bite on?" he offered, suddenly realising that this was going to hurt his dad a lot.

John shook his head. "I don't need it."

And that scared the crap out of Dean because he knew his dad wasn't into the Rambo thing. If John said he wasn't going to feel pain, it meant the spines had been left in much too long. The poison was already in John's system.

Dean didn't waste any more time. He reached for the first spine, which was embedded in the muscle of John's left arm. Though the knife was extremely sharp, Dean had to push hard to break through the skin. Or maybe it just felt hard because he was so damned nervous. Blood welled around the blade and Dean knew he'd gone too deep. John never flinched. Dean gripped the thick spine, pulling on it gently to feel where the barb was. When he was sure, he eased the knife blade around the hooked tip of the spine. It was like coring an apple and it should have made John scream, but John was silent. Then the spine came free with a gush of blood. Dean breathed with relief and tore the shirt sleeve open so he could dress the wound. He wiped the blood away quickly, added a gauze dressing, taped it down and it was done. Except it wasn't done, because that was just one spine.

Dean began to reach toward the next spine, and froze. He was going about this wrong. He paused and took a good look at his father, noting where the spines were, how they pinned the shirt to his body. He needed to strip the shirt off, which meant it would be best to start in the middle and work outward. Dean reached up to unbutton John's shirt. He couldn't help glancing upward, meeting his dad's eyes briefly as he worked on the buttons. He knew they were both remembering the same thing. Dean shoved that thought back down into the dark where it belonged and raised the knife toward the next spine. It wasn't like cutting meat. Meat didn't breathe. The rise and fall of John's chest was a distraction as Dean worked. He concentrated hard on each small task in turn. Cut close to the spine. Find the barb. Twist...pull. Clean and bandage. Over and over again. He allowed himself to think of nothing but the knife and the spines. One almost broke as he pulled it loose and Dean's breath hitched. He had to cut again, deeper, to get the spine out and for the first time John made a sound of pain.

Dean stopped then, worried. "Dad?"

John said, "You're doing good, son,"

Dean didn't think he was doing so good, but he was doing the best he could. He moved on to the next spine.

"Dad, what happens when the cops find Carla's body?"

John answered speaking through gritted teeth, "If we're lucky, they won't."

"_If_ they do?" Dean persisted.

"I don't know, son, but unless they find her tonight, there won't be any evidence linking her to us. Carla Sanchez lived totally off the grid. No drivers licence, no social security, not even a passport. Officially she's been a missing person since she was your age. Good enough?"

Dean stopped listening after _I don't know._ "No, sir." Even a few months earlier Dean would have accepted his dad's assurance. Not this time. He was worried about cops.

"I didn't think so," John smiled, and the note of pride in his voice made Dean smile back. But John didn't answer his question.

***

#### 2.41 am

The living room carpet was rolled up in the back yard: at the first opportunity they would burn it. An old but barely-used rug had been extracted from the attic and laid down in place of the ruined carpet. After a once-over with a vacuum cleaner it would look brand new. All of the living room furniture was back where it should be. Everything that could be cleaned was in a sack beside the front door; Dean would head out to the all-night laundromat when Sanchez returned the car.

Dean, still wearing his blood-soaked pyjama pants, sat at the kitchen table watching his father nurse a glass of scotch. John wore a dark green sweater in place of the ruined shirt. They were in the kitchen because neither of them could bear to sit in the other room.

Dean couldn't sit still. He pushed away from the table and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of beer, but he didn't really want it. It was just something to do. All he could think about was the blood on the living room carpet. Carla's blood. His father's blood. His father's skin warm beneath Dean's hands, iron-hard muscle sheathed in warm flesh and blood. That small sound of pain when Dean cut too deeply, which suddenly, in Dean's memory, didn't sound like pain at all.

Dean stared out of the window into the darkness, trying to fight off his feelings. That was a place he couldn't go.

"Dean," John said gently. "It's okay."

Dean said nothing, because he was pretty sure it wasn't okay. Nothing was okay about this night.

Then he felt John's hand on his shoulder. "I know what you're feeling," John told him.

Dean almost laughed. "No. You don't." He didn't move a muscle. With his dad touching him, Dean didn't dare to move.

"No?" The slightest pressure of John's hand directed him to turn around. Dean turned and John stepped back, checking his watch. "Listen, Dean, Sanchez won't be back for at least another hour. There's about eighty bucks in my wallet. Why don't you take it and take a walk down King Street."

Dean felt his mouth drop open. "I can't believe you just said that!" Aside from the fact that Dad promised to kick his ass into next week if he ever caught Dean cruising for hookers...John's meaning was clear and so fucking wrong.

John just looked at him steadily. "If you were a marine in my unit, that's what I'd do for you tonight. It'll help, Dean. Take the edge off what you're feeling."

Dean returned his father's look. White gauze peeked out from beneath his sweater, a silent reminder of how close John came to Carla's fate. John's face was a mask, but it was a mask Dean recognised. He remembered again how John looked when Carla died.

Dean hesitated, because he knew there was a good chance his dad would punch him out for what he was thinking. He said, quietly, "No, Dad. I don't need that." He reached for his father.

It wasn't the first time. Once, only once before they'd crossed this line and that, too, was after a hunt that didn't exactly go to plan. Dean remembered his panicked shout, warning Dad of danger and the idiotic way he leapt toward the edge of the cliff, dragging his dad to the ground. They'd both fallen over the edge, clinging to each other, rolling over and over down the steep slope while stones cut and bruised them both. When they finally came to a stop, Dean started laughing. After a moment, John joined him, but his laughter was harsh and strained. And then _it_ happened.

Dean was no innocent, but he'd been thrown way off balance by that desperate, hurried, a-fuckin'-mazing encounter, partly because he _did_know that sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen between fathers and sons. Not that all that much had happened. The following day John tried, awkwardly, to apologise for what happened and like an idiot, Dean let him. He'd told Dad to forget it. Fuck, that was dumb. In his defence, he'd been confused as hell and hadn't figured out until weeks later that the right response would have been to cut off the apology and damn well go for it. And because Dean got that so wrong, it ended before it truly began.

For a week or two, they'd walked on eggshells around each other, until Sammy demanded to know what Dean had done to piss Dad off. Then someone phoned with a story about a poltergeist in a school, which meant Dean got to go undercover and hang out there for a while to figure things out. Once the poltergeist was taken care of, Dean and his dad were okay again. Except for the memory. Except for Dean kicking himself for being a coward.

So this time, when John moved to push his hands away and said, "What are you doing?" in a voice Dean knew well, Dean looked right into his father's eyes and answered with John's own words:

"Takin' the edge off."

John grasped Dean's wrist, moving his hand away from his body. "I am your father," he said firmly.

Dean twisted his wrist out of John's grasp and closed his hand around John's, rubbing his thumb over John's wrist.

"Stop it," John said, but it lacked conviction.

Dean didn't stop. John grabbed him by the wrist again, twisting Dean's arm upward. Pain shot through the arm and Dean had to move closer to John, which probably wasn't what he intended. John's grip on his wrist was going to leave bruises. A perverse part of Dean liked it. He licked his lips.

"Stop it," John said again.

Dean looked into John's eyes. He was close enough to feel the heat of John's body. His heart was beating too fast, because Dean just didn't _do_ this to his dad. He was the one who obeyed orders, who knew how to take no for an answer.

But not tonight. "I'm not a kid," Dean insisted, his look daring John to contradict him. "I'm not a virgin. I know what I'm doing. I know what I want."

He had to close his eyes to conceal his triumph when John released his wrist. John's hand cupped Dean's cheek and he leaned into the touch, his eyes never leaving John's, giving silent consent to whatever John wanted. Anything. John's thumb traced Dean's lips, once, then a second time. The second time Dean opened his mouth, turning his head a little to take the first joint of John's thumb into his mouth. He sucked, and was rewarded when John caught his breath sharply.

With shaking hands, John pushed Dean to his knees.


	3. John

#### 2.41 am

John Winchester's jeans were still caked with dirt and blood. He could smell it, stale blood like an evil presence in the room. He was wearing a clean sweater which covered the fifteen or so wounds across his arms and chest, but there was drying blood in his hair and streaked across his face. It was a woman's blood. A woman he had killed. Accidentally, probably unavoidably, but even so, his hand wielded the knife that cut her throat.

John lifted the glass to his lips and drank, feeling the scotch burn down his throat. Tonight, the drink wasn't going to help much.

Dean crossed the kitchen again, this time to take a beer from the refrigerator. John, watching him, wanted to tell his eldest son to go and get dressed. Dean was a fearsome sight with blood drying on his arms and bare chest. He still wore nothing but the pyjama pants he'd been sleeping in when John woke him. He didn't seem to notice or care. None of the blood clinging to Dean's skin was Dean's, and for that, at least, John was grateful.

Dean passed the beer bottle from one hand to the other, restlessly. He opened a drawer and scrabbled inside, finally extracting a bottle opener. John knew Dean didn't really want that beer; he just needed something to do with his hands.

Dean turned his back on John, setting the beer bottle on the work surface and lifting the bottle opener. John stood up and felt sudden stabbing pain as the movement flexed his injured muscles. Pain was good. Pain meant his body hadn't absorbed too much of the poison from those spines.

Dean was having trouble opening the beer. He dropped the bottle opener with a clatter and swore under his breath. He tried again.

John reached his son's side and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Dean, it's okay," he said. Words to comfort a child, not a man and he knew he'd misspoken as soon as the words left his mouth.

Dean abandoned the bottle and turned to face John; John had to let his hand drop and take a step back to give Dean some space.

"I know what you're feeling," John tried.

A not-unexpected anger flashed into Dean's eyes, quickly stifled by what looked like guilt. He shook his head. "No, you don't."

In this, Dean was like any other eighteen year old; he thought he was the only man who'd ever felt what he was feeling. John remembered - an old memory, this one, but still too-vivid - a day of blood and fire in Vietnam, a day that ended with John stumbling back into the barracks with the stink of smoke and napalm and blood clinging to him. He remembered taking off his watch and becoming fascinated by how very clean his skin was where the strap had been, when the rest of his wrist was stained nearly black with soot and mud and the blood of friends and enemies alike. And he remembered less clearly gazing up through a woven roof into a starlit sky, while a girl who couldn't have been older than fifteen rode his body. He remembered he'd been so drunk that night he could barely make it, but he did. He remembered holding her after, for the few seconds they were alone, an oasis of comfort in a world gone mad.

Dean had seen death before. He had killed before. But he hadn't seen human death and certainly not up close and personal. Not since Mary...

The thought led John to the memory of another hunt gone bad (though not nearly so bad as tonight). He remembered Dean pushing him out of the way of the black dog's attack. They'd been right on the edge of an old quarry and Dean had shoved him way too hard. They both fell over the edge, rolling down a near-vertical slope in a tangle of limbs to end, dusty, bleeding and bruised but both laughing in the bottom of the abandoned quarry. John remembered their laughter turning into something else...

Yeah. He knew exactly what Dean was feeling. He checked his watch. Sanchez had been gone about thirty minutes. "Listen, Dean, Sanchez won't be back for at least another hour. There's about eighty bucks in my wallet. Why don't you take it and take a walk down King Street." King Street was where the prostitutes hung out at night. It wasn't something a father should encourage his son to do, but they weren't exactly an average family and tonight...special circumstances.

Dean's eyes went wide and he stared at John, open-mouthed as he understood what John was suggesting. "I can't believe you just said that!"

John returned his look steadily. Man to man. "It'll help, Dean. Take the edge off what you're feeling."

John wasn't sure what reaction he expected from his son, but it wasn't this quiet, reflective look. It made him nervous. John could face malevolent spirits, demons and monsters, but nothing had as much power to terrify him as his sons.

When Dean moved, it was quite deliberate, his hand coming up to slide beneath John's sweater. Dean's palm felt hot against John's bare skin.

"What are you doing?" John asked. He meant it to sound firm but to his ears his voice sounded breathy, uncertain. He hoped Dean couldn't hear that.

Dean's gaze was confident. The boy (no, not a boy, not any more) had his mother's eyes above a half-smirk, half-smile that was purely Dean's own. John was glad to see that smile. If Dean could still smile after everything John put him through tonight, he was going to be okay.

Then Dean spoke, answering John's question. "Takin' the edge off." His meaning was unmistakeable and it froze John's blood.

This wasn't like the last - and only - time. Then it had been reckless, a sudden, hot need. Then it had been overwhelming, powerful...and mutual. Not until much too late had John truly realised that the man he held, the man kissing him back with a frantic passion to match his own, was his son. His child. This wasn't like that.

John moved Dean's hand away from his skin. "I am your father," he said, gently but firmly.

Dean acknowledged the statement with a tiny nod, but there was a challenging look in his eyes. A look saying _Yeah, so what?_ and somehow managing to make it seem an utterly reasonable question.

"I'm not a kid," Dean asserted, and his fingers twined around John's fingers, his thumb finding the pulse-point in John's wrist and rubbing it, slowly.

"Stop it," John said.

(_Oh, god, don't stop..._)

He grasped Dean's hand, twisting his arm upward, knowing it would hurt, but not too badly. The pain made Dean gasp. The movement made him move forward, closing the space between their bodies until they stood so close it seemed a mere breath would bring them together. It made John's body heat, and he knew that if they touched, he would be lost.

He felt the bones of Dean's wrist beneath his hand and for a moment he thought about squeezing down, crushing those bones with his strength. He could do it.

Dean winced, but gave no other sign of pain. He licked his lips, and perhaps it was fear but John found the gesture unimaginably erotic, Dean's pink tongue darting out from between his lips, the shine of saliva. Dean's eyes, so much like Mary's eyes, filled John's vision.

"Stop it," he said again.

Dean didn't stop. "I'm not a virgin. I know what I'm doing. I know what I want."

And damn if Dean didn't lean in to him then, forcing John to feel the heat of his body, making him acutely aware of Dean's near-nakedness, firm muscle and smooth flesh. And did it matter so much, really, that Dean was his son? Did anything matter but this? Desire. Need. Lust.

"Dean..." he whispered and had no idea what words were supposed to follow because that was the moment Dean's other hand found John's zipper and slowly, his eyes never leaving John's face, he drew it down.

There was no more than that. Dean didn't try to undo John's belt. He didn't try to touch John, though they both knew he would have found John hard and ready.

He seemed to know there was no need to do any of those things.

What incubus possessed his son that he could undo John so easily?

John released Dean's wrist. He cupped his son's cheek and felt Dean lean into the touch, his gaze still holding John's. John's thumb traced Dean's lips, once, then a second time. The second time Dean opened his mouth, turning his head a little to take the first joint of John's thumb into his mouth. He sucked, and John's cock throbbed with anticipation.

John raised his hands to Dean's bare shoulders, and pushed Dean to his knees.

It was, John told himself as he unbuckled his belt, a test of sorts. He was calling Dean's bluff. But he knew it was a lie. Dean did not bluff. And John didn't much care because the way Dean fell willingly to his knees, the sight of Dean looking up, offering himself was simply intoxicating. Yes, _intoxicating_ was exactly the right word: it was like a drug John had to have, regardless of morality or consequence. In some corner of his mind John knew he was going to regret this, that there would be a price to pay. He didn't care.

Dean's eyes (Mary's eyes) watched every movement of John's hands. The belt was open. He undid the button. He slid his hand inside to pull out his cock. He was already hard as a rock, just anticipating having Dean's mouth on him. But he couldn't say it. He could not give this order.

Dean raised himself up on his knees, bringing his face close to John's groin. That confident half-smile returned. He wrapped his hand around John's cock, leaning even closer and closing his eyes. Dean rubbed his face along the hard flesh and the feel of his rough, unshaven cheek across so-sensitive skin drew a gasp from John. Dean looked up at him, smiling. Pleased. He looked like the cat that got the cream...and John was the cream.

Holy god...

One day, John thought, Dean was going to understand just how powerful he was. One day he would learn that his charm was good for more than mere pleasure. He would wield that smile as a weapon, and it would be devastating. One day.

Now, tonight, there was only this...and it was more than enough to weaken John's knees and set his heart pounding with an anticipation that was very close to being fear. Fear of his own son. _Dear, god, what have I created?_

Dean wet his lips, making sure John could see him do it, and took John into his mouth. The sensation was exquisite. A thought flashed through John's mind that Dean had done this before. No one could be this good on natural talent alone. But he pushed that thought away, not wanting to know who else might have seen his son like this, wanton and teasing, on his knees.

John laid his hand on Dean's head, ruffling fingers through his hair. He could feel the blood drying there, sticky against his fingers. His other hand clenched into a fist. He fought to stay in control and let this happen slowly. He wanted to take Dean, rough and hard. He wanted to fuck the beautiful mouth that was engulfing his dick in heat. John wouldn't do it, but it was there. The desire. The danger.

Dean took him deep into his throat and then drew back, so slowly, the hot, sucking pressure building up until John couldn't bear it. Dean raised his eyes to John's and John saw the pupils dilated with desire, Dean's eyes darkened almost to black. Wanting.

John relaxed into it; the firm pressure of Dean's hand around the root of his cock, the wet heat of his mouth, the long, slow strokes. He let Dean control it, afraid of hurting him, but Dean took him deep and loved it. John's hand gripped Dean's hair convulsively and he knew he was on the edge of losing control. One more touch, one more look, and he would lose it.

"Enough!" John rasped. He pushed Dean away from him, drawing back before he could give in to that dark need to fuck.

Dean's face showed confusion, disappointment.

John fell to his knees beside Dean, and pulled him close, fiercely. Pain pierced his healing wounds but John ignored it. He kissed his son, kissed him the way he wanted to fuck him, hard and demanding, tasting himself in Dean's mouth. That taste almost broke him. Dean's hands gripped John's shoulders, fingers digging into his wounds, reminding him to hold back. He broke away, breathless.

There was no hesitation in Dean. He showed no sign of regret, no sign he knew there was anything wrong in this. His hand slid up, cupping the back of John's neck. His lips formed one word: _Please_, but no sound came out.

John buried his face in Dean's neck. He kissed his skin, tasting blood and sweat. "Tell me what you want."

And for the first time he felt Dean hesitate. It was only for an instant, but it was enough to make John draw back, searching Dean's face for some sign. Did he want to stop?

Dean took John's hand and guided it to his cock. John rubbed him through the thin cotton and Dean drew in his breath with a hiss. He arched his back, throwing back his head, exposing his throat. There was a word in there somewhere, Dean saying something John couldn't hear.

John pulled Dean's pyjama pants down. He would have taken them off but Dean was still kneeling, making that difficult. But it was enough. "Tell me what you want," John demanded again, making it an order this time.

Dean met his eyes, pleading.

"Say it."

"Fuck me." Dean thrust his cock into John's hand. "Oh, god, please, just do it. Fuck me."

John didn't believe he could have done it without that demand. In his head it was a line that shouldn't be crossed, as if going that far would somehow be _more_ than all that went before. John picked up the closest thing that would work as a lubricant - it happened to be olive oil - and Dean watched him, his expression suddenly solemn.

John wanted to ask Dean if he had done this before, but he didn't. He wasn't sure he could handle the implications of either answer. He poured oil into his hand and held the open bottle out to Dean. "I want to watch you."

Dean's eyes widened, just a little. He hadn't expected that. Then he took the bottle from John. He stood, kicking off the pants, and poured oil onto his hands.

John stroked himself slowly, his eyes riveted on his son's hands as they moved over his tight stomach, sleeking oil over his pubic hair, and his cock. The oil shone under the electric lights and he wanted to take Dean in his mouth, to taste and suck...

Another time, perhaps, because as the thought came into John's head Dean dropped to his knees, turning his back on John. He gave John exactly what he'd asked for: a perfect view of Dean sliding oiled fingers inside himself. Dean groaned softly but not in pain. He pushed in further, twisting his hand until his gasp told John that he'd found that place inside.

John's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't help imagining what Dean felt, what he was doing to himself. John could not wait another moment. He moved closer and Dean shifted onto all fours, his legs apart.

And John knew he was going to hell for this but it didn't matter. It was worth it.

Sliding into Dean was like sliding into heaven. He tried to go slow, but Dean pushed back, trying to hurry him.

John groaned. "No, don't." And when Dean moved beneath him again, "God, Dean, keep still! I won't last."

Dean's soft laughter vibrated through their joined bodies and it was just too much. What control John had left snapped and he drove himself deep, forcing Dean to support much of his weight.

Dean whispered a fierce, "Yessss!" the s-sound drawn out in a long hiss.

John watched the muscles move beneath Dean's skin, a tension matched in his own body. He reached around Dean's shoulder, pulling their bodies close together as he moved inside him, harder, faster, hardly aware that he'd closed his eyes.

He whispered Dean's name over and over against his skin and Dean groaned, "Oh, god," and he came, his cock pulsing in John's hand, his body bucking hard, struggling to stay quiet. A few more strokes and John came too, muffling his cry against Dean's back.

For a few moments they remained still, kneeling on the kitchen floor. John's harsh breathing seemed very loud to him. Then he withdrew himself carefully, and rolled onto his back to fasten his pants.

Dean sat up beside him and suddenly the moment became extremely uncomfortable. In the end, John couldn't avoid that this was his son, his boy.

One more mess to clean up.

***

#### 9.43 am

John heard the rumble of the Impala's engine outside and set down his scotch, moving over to the living room window. The room was clean now, the different carpet the only sign that anything untoward had taken place. He watched Dean get out of the car and retrieve the laundry sack from the rear seat.

He thought back, then, remembering Dean as a child, before the world changed on them all. He remembered kicking a ball around the yard with his laughing son, and the way Dean would run into his arms when he came home from work. He remembered Dean curled up on a couch between himself and Mary, when she was pregnant with little Sammy, his little hand on her swollen stomach, feeling the baby kick.

He remembered Mary on the nursery ceiling.

He remembered teaching Dean to shoot and the intensity with which his six year old son listened to every instruction. He fired at the practice target with such a serious expression on his face, as if he saw, or imagined, something there which John couldn't see. It was always that way for Dean. He knew how to have fun, but serious came first.

John opened the front door for Dean and took the clean laundry from him.

Dean reported without being asked. "There was no one else at the laundromat, and I got everything clean. Is Sammy up yet?"

It was a reasonable question; Sam was an early riser. But thankfully, not today. "I checked on him about fifteen minutes ago. He was still asleep."

John put the laundry bag away under the staircase - he would sort through it later - and they headed into the kitchen. John noticed that Dean carefully avoided looking into the living room. He couldn't blame Dean for wanting to avoid the memory of the night's carnage, but Dean was going to have to learn to put this stuff aside. John started to gather what he needed to make breakfast.

Dean sat down at the table. John glanced his way, noticing how tired Dean looked. He hadn't had much sleep, but he was young and very resilient. A couple of mugs of coffee and some food, and he'd be good as new.

"How can you eat?" Dean asked.

"I'm hungry," John answered practically. "You should be, too." He turned on the heat and reached for the frying pan. He sighed, feeling awkward suddenly, knowing what he needed to say. "Listen, Dean..."

Dean interrupted him forcefully. "No way. No fucking way." It was a tone John rarely heard from his eldest son. Dean shoved himself up from the table and moved to stand near to John; close, but not touching him. He looked right into John's eyes from inches away, and what John saw in his eyes was anger.

"Dad, how can you be okay with what happened in our living room last night, but not with what we did right here? I've gotta tell you, the other way around makes sense to me!"

John slammed the pan down on the ring. "What happened to Carla is part of what we do. It's a risk we all accept, Dean, a risk I've got to accept again tonight, when Sanchez and I finish that hunt. Do you think it doesn't bother me?"

"I didn't say that. I said what we did bothers you _more_. And...I just don't get that."

How could Dean _not_ get that? They were father and son. Fathers and sons don't fuck each other. But this was something John already knew about Dean. He remembered Dean's eagerness: no hesitation, no guilt. And if Dean truly didn't understand how wrong it was, then John, as his father, was responsible for that, too.

It was too late to fix it, but John tried, for the last time, to explain. "Dean, we are family. I know you know what that means."

Dean nodded curtly. "Yeah, I know what family means. I'm beginning to wonder if _you_ do." He turned away from John, a sharp movement. Then he looked back over his shoulder. "Dad, you said you knew what I was feeling last night. I don't think you did. I was freaked out by what happened to Carla but..." He threw up his hands, as if he'd run out of words. "Oh, fuck it. You're not going to listen anyway."

_Son, have I failed you so badly?_ John raised a hand toward his son, but Dean never saw the gesture. He let his hand fall and said, "Dean. Tell me what's on your mind."

For a long time, Dean was silent, the tension in his back and shoulders almost screaming. Abruptly, he turned around to face John. "It's not about getting laid, Dad. I don't need to pay for a fuck; that's easy to get for free. But... Dad..." Dean fell silent again, looking down at his boots, and then he looked up, directly into John's eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight, as if every word was being torn out of him. "Sometimes I...I wanna lay down with someone I love. And only you and Sammy are on that list."

Fear ripped through John like lightning. He watched Dean stagger backward before he even realised he'd hit him. Dean looked up at him from the floor, one hand touching his jaw. "What the hell...?"

John offered his hand to help Dean to his feet. After a moment, Dean took his hand warily. John hauled him up. He kept hold of Dean's hand. It was a struggle to keep his voice even. "Don't you _ever_ mention Sammy in the same breath as this."

Fear flickered into Dean's eyes but he didn't answer.

"I mean it, Dean. If you so much as _think_ about touching your brother..."

"I wouldn't! Dude, he's fourteen!" Dean pulled away from John's touch, rubbing at his jaw again.

John wasn't satisfied. "If that's the only thing stopping you, son, we have a problem."

Dean shook his head. "It's not. Dad, I swear, that never crossed my mind. Hell, I know we're a fucked up family but... No. Just no."

John studied him for a moment, searching for some sign of deception. Finally, he relaxed. "Good. Sit down and tell me what you want for breakfast."

Dean pulled out one of the tall chairs and sat down at the breakfast bar. "I couldn't eat, Dad. Just coffee, okay?"

By the time Sam joined them, the scene was as normal as they could manage. John had made coffee for Dean and scrambled eggs and toast for himself and he was sitting at the table with the morning newspaper open in front of him. Dean was drinking his coffee with his back to the breakfast bar: a position that gave him a view of the stairs.

"Sammy!" Dean called, alerting John.

Sam appeared in the doorway. He was dressed for training, which surprised John a little: Sam had been talking about some football game that was supposed to happen today.

Dean grinned at his brother, the smile a little too bright. "Morning, Sammy. You want scrambled egg or Wheaties?"

John raised the newspaper, pretending to read.

"Wheaties," Sam answered, dragging out a chair with a loud scrape and sitting down at the table. "What's going on today?"

John folded his newspaper. "I have to meet someone, so Dean's going to take you shooting. After that, you can please yourself today. Suits?"

Sam smiled. "Yes, sir."

He would probably talk Dean into ending training early so he could go to his football game. Well, today Dean deserved the break. Was Sammy playing or watching? John couldn't remember. He would have to ask...later.

First, there was a hunt to finish.

#### ~ End ~


End file.
